Filius Dei
by HecateTriformis
Summary: While three friends worry about one of their own, Aramis acts his part. AU Read and review please.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: Any (grammatical) mistakes are my own but I would be glad if you could point them out to me. Just don't flame please. As much as I like constructive critism, I do not like flames. If someone liked to be my betareader, it would be very much appreciated._

The years had not been as kind on Aramis as he would have liked them to be. His hair had turned gray and his beard already sported more than a few white wisps. As he lifted his hands up to his face he felt wrinkled skin beneath his blistered hands.Upon looking in the mirror, he saw a stranger's face that bore just enough resemblance with the one he had been accustomed to see in his youth.

„Father ..."

He turned to see the source of the voice standing in the doorway, on the other side of the small room he had come to call ‚home' for the time being. It was a young man, fidgeting nervously under the priest's steady gaze.

„What is it?"

„Someone is calling for you. They are ... soldiers."

For a fleeting moment, lots of scenarios crossed Aramis' mind, almost unconciously he stole a glance at his bag where a rusty, old épée lay hidden beneath neatly folded shirts and underwear. But even as he looked, realization hit him that no one would ask for him in a way that could involve a weapon. He was a priest, a man of god, not a fighter. When someone asked for him, it meant that they needed the service of a man used to handling a sprinkler of holy water not a sword.

„What do they want?"

The boy, for he wasn't much more than that, Michel, obviously felt uncomfortable and threw the padre a helpless glance. „Last rites, I think."

„What do you mean ‚you think'?"

„They have a wounded among them, Father."

Aramis smiled grimly.

War had broken out not too long ago. In recent weeks, he had served a lot of people, sometimes shriving them, other times anointing them. It always depended on how much time they had had left. Sometimes he did both.

He seized the boy's arm and pulled him into the room, whilst he moved closer to the door. „Get the things I need, you know which ... you _do_ know which, right?"

Michel nodded hastily. „Of course, padre."

Content, the priest set out for the tavern's back room where he knew, he'd most likely find the soldiers.

* * *

One, two, three, four ... nine steps was all it took the lieutenant to cross the room, before he turned and walked back to where he had come from. The chamber, while rather small was cozy enough. If your idea of „cozy" included everything equipped with more than a stool of rotten wood. Such a stool could be found in this place as well but there were also a table, a bench and a few chairs that seemed slightly steadier than the stool. So why the lieutenant's superior had seated himself on said stool was beyond the officer. It stood on even shakier legs than the room's four occupants combined and that was remarkable given their condition.

The lieutenant fastened his gaze upon the man lying on the bench, next to his captain's seat. His trembling hands rested upon his abdomen where a blood soaked bandage covered a most likely mortal wound.

The fourth man stood a few feet away, near a window where he kept stealing glances at the door and outside. Every once in a while he would take a look at his wounded friend and unconciously straighten up whenever he met his superior's gaze.

One, two ...

„Sit down."

The lieutenant looked up, startled by his captain's voice. He seemed more strained than ever, still sitting next to the wounded man, tapping his shoulder in what was obviously meant to be encouragement.

„Yes, sir."

Everything was silent while the lieutenant first looked for another chair and then sat down heavily on it. Absent-minded he started picking at his uniform, brushing imaginary fluff off of it.

Someone cleared his throat. The lieutenant stopped what he was doing and looked up, only to meet his captain's stern gaze.

„Pardon me", said he and raked his fingers through his dark hair. Seemingly, he could not sit still today, but he didn't know what it was that made him want to start pacing again.

A touch on his arm caught his attention for a moment, before the captain withdrew his hand and nodded slowly.

„We are all nervous", he replied in a calm voice, „but do try not to display your bother so much."

„Yes, mon capitaine." The lieutenant stole a glance at his injured friend and smiled encouragingly at him.

„It won't take long now, Charles", he whispered and to his contentment, his friend seemed to understand the words, for a small smile grazed the wounded's lips. Presumably, the lieutenant thought bitterly, Charles wasn't even aware of the extent of his injures and had long lost his sense of reality. Perhaps, he even thought there was a chance for him to be saved.

„That priest is taking his time", the officer remarked. His superior ignored him for a time, instead concentrating on the injured who seemed to relax in the presence of his comrades. Along with his sense for reality he had long lost his ability for speech as he had grown weaker and weaker over the last hour. Even his hearing didn't seem to work properly but he registered his companions' smiles and obviously understood that they were trying to keep his spirits up.

The captain threw a suspicious look at the blood-soaked dressing that covered the still bleeding wound.He extended a hand towards it but droped it before he could touch the bandage. He knew what the injury looked like, knew better than anyone else that there was nothing that could be done for the soldier.

Instead he turned his attention toward his lieutenant who had already started tapping his foot in yet another attempt to calm his nerves. He only succeeded in ticking his superior off who briefly considered sending him away for a few minutes, supposedly to patrol. But he soon realized that that wasn't possible, the lieutenant couldn't leave the room anymore than he could. Not that he would have.

„I am sure he will be here any second", he admonished his subordinate. Still, just like him the captain would have very much liked to throw distrustful looks at the door or pace the room, But he knew it couldn't be helped and he _was_ the highest ranking officer in the room.A captain couldn't start cussing like a sailor, no matter how much he would have liked to. Besides, Charles would have realized something was amiss and maybe started wondering. The other two need not see him like that either, after all, he was supposed to be their leader, their guidance. Not a man who worried for a friend. That job was reserved to his subordinates who in turn needn't be bothered with command decisions he had to make.

That moment, the door swung open and a man entered the chamber. Captain and lieutenant rose at once and examined the newcomer intently.

He turned out younger than the captain would have thought him to be, though the first glimpses of white could be caught in a gray beard and his skin had already started wrinkling.

„Father", he greeted the other and stepped away from the bench to make way for the clericalist. Somehow he seemed familiar but perhaps it was the cowl. Those people all looked the same anyway.

Aramis nodded at the two officers and sat down onto the spot the lieutenant had just vacated.He looked carefully at the wounded and understood.

„What is his name?", he asked quietly. The injured stared up at him curiously, Aramis thought, and was particularly interested in the golden cross that hung from the priest's neck and glistered faintly in the weak light.

„Charles", the captain provided. He had taken a stand at the bench's end and stood there, his arms crossed in fron of him, frowning at the cleric. Now that it was obvious that the priest thought the same as he did - that Charles couldn't be saved -a fear gripped him that he had before been able to evade. The captain was no doctor, he could be wrong, could he not? He knew the priest was not responsible but he couldn't help bearing a certain grudge.

Aramis was not sure he understood why the two men at either end of the bench (for the lieutenant had taken up stand on the other end of his friend's bedside and was unconsciously mirroring his superior's expression) suddenly seemed to have developed a dislike for him but he supposed they had interpreted his own expression correctly. It was not uncommon that people faced with a tragedy suddenly started shooting the messenger and that, he realized, was just his role in this drama.

„Charles", he repeated slowly and nodded. He leant forward and opened his mouth to speak, when suddenly Charles turned his own head to look at him and Aramis froze. Charles' look went right through him but what caught Aramis' attention were the blood-soaked remains of a uniform that had been used to bandage the wound. Remains of a musketeer's uniform. Abruptly, he lifted his head and took another careful, considerate look at the injured's face. Did he seem familiar?

„Charles", he repeated once more, a little louder than before, whilst he searched for anything familiar in the other man's face. He seemed to be a stranger but was he really? Could it be that he was his long lost friend from Gascony whom war had changed so much that he couldn't be recognized at first glance? It was possible. After all, Aramis himself didn't look like he used to.

If this was indeed d'Artagnan, it was even more likely since when the padre had last seen the musketeer, his friend had been no older than twenty-five.

„His name", he said at last and turned to give the captain a helpless glance, „what is his name?"

The other man furrowed his brow, exchanged a slow look with his lieutenant and hesitated before he turned away sadly. Aramis stared up at him, both uncomprehending and annoyed, and hissed: „You should be able to tell me his full name!"

Silence reigned, then the captain shook his head and cleared his throat, a hint of embarrassment in his voice: „No. He isn't part of my unit. I ... he's Charles", he concluded helplessly.

It was Aramis' turn to hesitate as he turned again to stare hard at the injured who returned his gaze smiling curiously. He _did_ share a certain resemblance to a certain firebrand the priest had come to know over a dozen years ago but was it really him?

Someone cleared his throat and as Aramis lifted his gaze again he met a pair of eyes he had so far ignored. It belonged to the man that had been standing at the door when he had entered. Aramis hadn't payed much attention to him until now when the man anounced: „I know his name."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thanks a lot for the reviews. I appreciate them. :-)

* * *

"Charles Lehmann. He is Swiss."

At a moment's notice, Aramis felt relief flood him. He looked warily at the soldiers and was careful not to let his alleviation be too obvious. More calm now, he turned back to the dying man and bent forward.

"Are you ready to confess your sins?" He tried to speak as clearly as possible and for a second, even considered using his command of German in order to get through to the Swiss. A whispered "yes" reached his ears.

A knock at the door interrupted only the lieutenant's concentration, while neither the priest nor the captaine took any notice. The door opened a moment later and Michel entered. To the lieutenant, a stranger who carried an armful of unidentified objects and inquired stutteringly: „May I? I brought the things you asked for, Father."

Without turning, Aramis replied calmly: „You may leave the oil, there isn't enough time for anything else."

Michel stared down at his arms perplexed. He nodded at the lieutenant to take the oil before turning rather abruptly and leaving.

After passing the oil on to the priest, the lieutenant resumed his position at the bed's end. He would have liked to leave too but he knew he had to stay.

Charles was his comrade and more importantly, his friend. They had known each other since the outbreak of war and had been friends since that fateful day when they had been ambushed by enemy soldiers and had sought shelter in a wine cellar. Now, it sounded too good to be true, too surreal to actually have happened.

He remembered a lot of things that had been happening over the last years. Only a few didn't include his friend, the Swiss.

With one hand he reached up to brush through his hair which looked as though he had risen just a little while ago.

Ah, yes. A bed. What he wouldn't give to go looking for a bed in this tavern and lie down, if only for a minute. He longed to get off his feet and take a moment to relax. But they weren't here for pleasure.

He threw a tired glance at the priest's face whose words were nearly indistinguishable. But it didn't matter, he had witnessed too many scenes like this to not know exactly what was being said. The lieutenant had memorized the words long ago.

So had Aramis. He knew what he had to say and when. He didn't need to think about any of it. Therefore he let his mind wander. Again, the memory of d'Artagnan appeared in his thoughts. Where could he be now? The dying man was a musketeer too, yet Aramis was shy of inquiring about his friend. Why, he couldn't say. He was reluctant to display his concern for d'Artagnan's whereabout so openly. He couldn't even ask the _capitaine_ who was so much like the man from Gascony. If he knew d'Artagnan, they surely were best friends.

"Have mercy, Lord ..." , Charles whispered and Aramis permitted a smile to graze his lips. He stole a glance at the captain whose eyes hadn't left him since he had first sat down.

The man held his gaze fixed upon the priest's face. A silent accusal was apparent in his eyes. Perhaps he had recognized the far away look Aramis had worn a mere second ago. Yet he said nothing though for whose sake the _padre _wasn't sure. Maybe the young man's who stood on Aramis' other side, surely not for that of the dying Swiss.

A smile still grazed his lips, an engrossed look an his face displayed state of mind. Though it was still possible for Charles to experience a _lucidum intervallum_, a clear moment where his senses were not blurred, he was not experiencing one now. He was confessing his sins in a monotone voice as if he were reading them off some inner list only he could see. Still, there was no doubt that M. Lehmann wanted to confess his sins, that he wished to have his soul cleanse before stepping in front of his Creator.

Meanwhile, something in the captain's eyes made Aramis shiver. After spending dozens of years as God's humble servant, the man would have thought to have grown accustomed to constant observation. Yet, that look left Aramis uneasy, as if the captain knew exactly who he was. More so as the _padre_ could not say the same about the officer. He had no idea what to expect of the man. Maybe that was another thing that disturbed him. Hadn't he been able to tell who stood before him when he was still younger?

"You know your words well", the captain observed quietly when the _padre_ raised his head to meet his gaze. It had taken him a mere second to realize the father wasn't paying too much attention to Charles' ramblings.

Something within him rebelled against the thought that Charles was just ‚someone'. Some dying man whose name would be soon forgotten, whose rank didn't hold any meaning now. The captain knew that the very same fate befell hundreds of other men each day the war continued raging. But it should not befall Charles Lehmann. Because he was not merely a soldier, he was a friend.

"Why do say that?" The priest frowned at his words, yet he didn't contradict them.

Once again, the officer wished he were still a simple lieutenant. He'd be able to curse when he wanted to and even, yell at the _padre _to make him see why exactly he had chosen to say something. As it were, he had to lower his voice.

"You know your text well enough. You need not listen to what your penitent tells you, Father."

At first, the _padre_ didn't seem to understand. Then he got angry.

"Are you saying I do not care?" Contrary to the officer, the priest's voice had grown louder. He stared hard at the captain, as though daring him to repeat his words. But he didn't need to. While stealing a glance at the lieutenant who had started to come over and shaking his head at him, he replied: "No."

The captain was not ready to fight over this, there were other things to attend to first. He knew he should never have started talking to the priest but for a moment, he had forgotten about everything else when he had met the _padre_'s vacant gaze.

Now, the father seemed to consider his words for a moment, ere he turned back to the penitent and smiled down at him. Maybe it was luck that Charles had stopped talking only a mere second ago or perhaps, it was that he really did know what he was doing.

The fourth man who had so far neither spoken nor moved, let out a low sigh. With Charles' vitality slowly slipping away, he found himself looking in the other men's direction more frequently.

He knew what both his captain and the priest had said. They both thought that it was already too late to save the Swiss' life. He himself had not taken that close a look at the wound to judge its degree. And then, he had not yet seen many wounds in his time that had not been clearly mortal or just skin-deep. Above all, he was no doctor. Neither was his superior.

Was it not possible that he was mistaken? That there was still time left to save Charles' life? Perhaps, if he told the captain - respectfully - about his doubts, he'd let him go? There had to be a doctor to be found in this place!

"Where do you think you're going?"

He had not even moved but somehow the captain had read his expression well and sneaked up behind him.

"I would like to go looking for a doctor, _mon capitaine_."

"Permission denied. You stay."

The captain fastened his hard gaze on the other man. He understood the other's need to do something but he could not let him harbour doubts. Not with the lieutenant around who had been looking for an excuse to leave the whole time, although he had to know that he could not just leave. Charles needed him, after all.

The younger man opened his mouth as if to reply but contented himself with nodding. Sighing, the captain turned and motioned for his subordinate to do the same.

"Look at him", he ordered quietly. "It takes longer than I had anticipated but that's because he's resting. Were he to move, he would be dead already. The wound is too deep and too severe, there is nothing anyone could do."

"And half an hour ago?"

Charles was visibly paling and his wound had not yet stopped bleeding. It was possible, the other man did not see this or did not want to see it. Still, the captain winced slightly. He took another look at the wounded and shook his head. "There was never a chance for his survival", he replied aggrieved.

„And in Paris?" The ensign knew, he had to know, that this was not leading anywhere. Reluctantly the captain snarled: "Don't ask questions for question's sake! In Paris none of this would have happened. There is no sense in thinking about it in this fashion. Fact is: Charles is going to die and there is nothing we can now do or could have done to prevent it."

For a moment, he considered gripping the other's hand in a mute gesture of encouragement but he found he couldn't. It would not be appropriate this time. So he contented himself with nodding to the ensign before going back to the father and his penitent.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Many thanks to those who reviewed the previous chapters. Hopefully, you'll like the conclusion of this story.

Aramis had just finished speaking and the Swiss followed close with a compliant ‚Amen' when the captain returned. What he had been talking about was neither Aramis' business nor did he care to know it. Furthermore, he was not curious what would happen to his penitent. He would die within the next minutes, the priest knew. There was nothing else to be done here and Aramis was a very busy man with little time on his hands.

For a moment though, the former musketeer hesitated and thought of his friend d'Artagnan. He was glad the dying man was somebody else.

Admittedly, he had neither seen nor heard anything from his friend from Gascony for many years but it would have pained him greatly to have the younger man lying on that or any similar bench next to him.

While Aramis performed the Extreme Unction and quietly quoted the proper verse, he found his mind wandering again and contemplate his former comrade's fate.

So many time had passed, so many things had happened ever since. Perhaps the captain knew of d'Artagnan's fate. Mayhap he even knew the Gascon himself? But Aramis did not dare inquire.

The capitaine stepped forward, briefly brushing over Charles' brow when the wounded's eyes rose to meet his. But they didn't, instead the Swiss stared right through him and then went on looking for someone else. The lieutenant took a step towards Charles hesitantely and the captain ushered him forward. He took the priest's arm who had remained oblivious to the exchange and led him away. A quiet smile appeared on his face when the lieutenant sat down heavily next to his wounded friend and bent forward as if to talk to him.

When the captain turned towards the priest, the man inquired coldly:

"Is there anything else?"

"Are you in a hurry?"

"I am."

"Whatever it is, it will have to wait."

Aramis thought back to the days of his youth when such a statement would have been met with more than just a glare.

"I have doen every thing I can for him", he explained, „there is nothing else that I can do. It will not take much longer now."

"Good. You can stay then."

Aramis frowned at the stubborness of his vis-à-vis.

"Charles would have wanted it", the captain offered quietly, an excuse and an explanation for his insistence maybe? But the former musketeer would have none of it. "M Lehmann is not the only one who is dying tonight and not the only person to require my services."

"No other soldiers have taken shelter here for tonight", the captain objected yet again but less firmly this time. Aramis would have answered him were not for the lieutenant whose choked cry alerted them.

"Charles!"

The two men turned to look at the bed, both dreading the sight that would greet them. But Charles was not yet dead. Presently, he coughed and gripped the lieutenant's hand tightly. "Adrien..", he whispered, the lieutenant's name Aramis presumed, and smiled. As though this had been the moment he had been waiting for, he tightened his grip on his friend's hand briefly before slumping back on the bed, and sighing closed his eyes forever.

It happened too fast, his friends would later say. After all the time they had waited and spent dreading that final moment, only Adrien had had the time to say ‚Good bye' and let the Swiss know he was there. Although, they understood that Charles had to have known who had been there with him.

During all this, the men forgot about the priest and when finally, he came to their minds again, he was long gone. The door was open but neither man had any inclination to call the father back. After all, his work among the group was now truly finished and nothing remaint to be done.

Deep down in his soul, Aramis felt guilty.

Surely had someone else been in his stead, Michel perhaps, he would with disgust have announced that it did not become a priest to flee in such a fashion. But it had not been anybody else and now, that he had put that room and those men behind him, he felt relieved. Much more so than guilty, he realized.

The men, apart from the dying Swiss, had troubled him greatly. They had reminded him of his past and while the days had been good then, very good indeed, it was something he had kept buried for years. Maybe, why seeing the soldiers had suddenly affected him had had to do with d'Artagnan. Tonight, he had thought of the other man more often than in the last ten years.

A door sprang open, barely missing Aramis who had jumped back at the last second. A man wearing a bloodied uniform entered, an épée in his right hand which he pointed at Aramis almost immediately.

"Where are they?" he inquired harshly in a voice hoarse from running.

"Are you talking about the soldiers, my son?" For a fleeting moment, he wished he had his own weapon ready.

"Of course I am talking about the soldiers!" the man, a musketeer, spat angrily and gripped his thrusting tighter.

"At the end of the corridor-" replied Aramis, stepping out of the way just in time. The man brushed past him and disappeared a few moments later.

Aramis stayed where he was, uncertain as to what he should do. Perhaps he should go back and make sure the man was who he believed him to be but then, he was no longer welcome among the men in the back room. Besides, he was almost sure that the newcomer had been d'Artagnan. Him the priest would have wanted to aid in times of need, especially such a time where nothing could be said or done to help and the only thing to do was stay at the mourning's side and be there for him.

The Gascogn though wouldn't have wanted that. After all, he didn't even know his own friend anymore. While Aramis had recognized the former comrade at first sight, d'Artagnan's eyes had not held any recognition. The padre didn't begrudge him this. He wasn't even sure anymore that he wanted to be recognized. Perhaps it was better to remain anonymous.

Michel was busily rearranging his things when the father returned to the room he shared with the novice. His mood did not seem to have improved greatly although instead of angry he now seemed thoughtful and melancholic.

"Is everything alright, Father?" Michel inquired hesitantely.

" ‚Is everything alright?' ", he repeated dully, "Of course, it is."

The novice looked at him, doubt in his eyes, and while Aramis wouldn't have cared any other day, today he replied: "I only met an old ..." He stumbled. An old ... acquaintance? A friend? A former comrade?

But nothing had changed between them. Not really, they trod different paths now but they were still...

"An old friend" Aramis smiled gently and felt oddly comforted when Michel mirrored his smile shyly. Perhaps it was time to tell this young man about the past and a certain friend ...

The End


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